


Bonne Année

by astrid_fischer



Series: 'le révolutionnaire', an a.b.c. press publication [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern Era, new year's fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrid_fischer/pseuds/astrid_fischer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras finds Grantaire on his couch New Year's Eve (and wishes he was surprised), there is an orange juice toast, and resolutions are made (sort of).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonne Année

**Author's Note:**

> (something silly written for new year's eve.)

When Enjolras leaves his bedroom in the middle of the night (because he's just remembered something he left out of the latest mockup and he needs to write it down before he forgets), he's not all that surprised to find Grantaire asleep on his couch.

Enjolras doesn't usually lock his door, because more often than not one of his friends—usually Combeferre, though Marius has been hanging about more frequently these past few weeks—will end up wandering in and curling up on the hideously orange armchair, or the couch, or even the floor. He's frankly impressed that Grantaire made it all the way to the couch this time.

The heating in the apartment has been shut off and it's December 31st and snow is falling gently outside, which is why the ancient space heater in his room has been plugged in for three days straight. The tiny living room and kitchen space, though, are freezing, the hardwood floor like ice under Enjolras' bare feet and the cold seeping through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

He glances over at Grantaire while he writes 'ADD EVNTS PG 5. CUT 5 LINES S3' neatly on a pink post-it and sticks it into his notebook.

The other man is sleeping on his side, one hand wedged under his cheek and long legs a sprawl. As Enjolras watches, Grantaire shivers, his brow creasing into a faint frown before easing out again. He hunches his shoulders, curling in on himself.

Enjolras sighs. Grantaire's coat is ancient and threadbare, and there are no blankets on the couch. He pads back into his own room, rubbing sleep from his eyes and muttering something under his breath about idiots freezing to death.

Grantaire's eyes flicker open when Enjolras drags the spare comforter over him. "What?" he mumbles, still half-asleep. "M'fine."

But his fingers grip the comforter to pull it up to his chin, and he gives a contented sort of sigh as his eyes slide shut again. "What time's it?" he murmurs. He looks rather comical huddled underneath the enormous pile of down.

Enjolras looks across to the digital clock on the microwave, numbers glowing green in the dark apartment. He realizes it's no longer December 31st after all. "Two forty-five," he answers gently. "Happy New Year."

Grantaire's brown eyes snap open again and he sits up, suddenly alert. It startles Enjolras, who raises one eyebrow at him and pauses on his way back down the tiny hallway to his room. "What is it?" he asks, vaguely wary.

"It's the new year?" Grantaire asks, in a tone which suggests Enjolras' response is the most important thing in the world.

"That's what I said."

"Do you have champagne?"

"Do I—" Enjolras sighs and runs a hand through his unruly blonde curls. He has to be up at seven. "No, Grantaire, I don't have champagne."

"What do you have?" Grantaire asks, pushing the covers away and standing up, already on his way to the kitchen before Enjolras can call him back. "We need a toast to the New Year!"

"It's nearly three hours past the new year," Enjolras points out crossly, though he follows Grantaire into the tiny kitchen unit, blinking in the sudden brightness as the overhead light is flicked on, and leans against the doorjamb with his arms folded.

"And there's no alcohol in the place," he adds unnecessarily as Grantaire rifles through cupboards which are largely empty, sighs, then moves to the fridge. Enjolras rarely remembers to buy groceries—he has black coffee and bagels at the office, and that's really all he needs.

"Ha!" Grantaire cries, spinning around with a carton in his hand.

"Orange juice," Enjolras says slowly. He refuses to smile, because it's very late and he's tired and irritated. He won't smile. "You want to toast with orange juice?"

"Yes," Grantaire answers promptly, and sets about collecting glasses from the dish rack. He pours a glass tumbler of orange juice for Enjolras and a mug with the Sorbonne's logo stamped on it for himself. "We are celebrating."

"It's a day on the calendar, that's all," the blonde man says, but he accepts the glass anyway. It's easiest to humor Grantaire, sometimes, and he's so inexplicably excited about the New Year that Enjolras is reluctant to snap at him, tired though he is.

"Is not," Grantaire says, sounding as affronted as if the other man had insulted his mother. "It's a blank slate! A chance to do…" he gestures wordlessly with his hands, clearly trying to come up with examples of wondrous things one might do with a blank slate.

"Anything," he finishes at last, with a shrug and a slow, brilliant grin. "You can change anything you want."

"You do realize you can do that anytime?" Enjolras asks dryly.

Grantaire fixes him with a put-upon look as he pushes himself up to sit on the cluttered counter, letting his legs dangle. "Can't the marble statue take one night off?"

"Even if I could, it's already morning," Enjolras points out, and regrets it at once because of the way Grantaire's smile falls.

"What are you going to do, then?" he asks, giving in. Grantaire looks up at him, his expression a question. "With your new year," Enjolras clarifies. "You say you can change anything. What is it that you want to change?"

Of all things, Grantaire blushes. He looks away, clearing his throat. "You know me. I'm more about the option for change than the actual enactment," he says in a voice that would be convincingly nonchalant if not for the spots of color still visible in his cheeks.

"Come on," Enjolras sighs. "You've got me up at three in the morning for this nonse—for this," he corrects, at the look on Grantaire's face. "You're not even going to say what it is you want?"

"Have you never heard the rule about wishes?" Grantaire tsks, swinging his legs. "It doesn't work if you tell everyone what they are."

Enjolras raises one eyebrow and leans back against the opposite counter. Given how small the kitchen is, they're not far apart. "I thought we were talking about resolutions, not wishes."

Grantaire shrugs one shoulder and meets his eyes only briefly before looking down at the mug clasped in his hands. "A little of both, maybe."

Enjolras sighs, because Grantaire isn't normally this cryptic and it frustrates him when people don't say what they mean. "I'll tell you one of mine, if you tell me one of yours."

Grantaire looks surprised, then skeptical. "I didn't think you made resolutions."

"I don't," Enjolras replies with a small smile. "You said wishes."

Grantaire gives him a look, because frankly that doesn't seem any more likely. Enjolras adopts a very serious tone and leans forward to whisper, "I wish Jehan would stop writing sonnets on my tax forms."

It's Grantaire's turn to sigh and shake his head. "That doesn't count."

"Even if I really, really wish it?" Enjolras asks, with a rare smile. "I really will lock him out on the fire escape next time."

The other man makes a derisive sound into his mug, and Enjolras pushes off from the counter and reaches up to tug it out of his hands. "Come on," he says with his usual air of authority. "Your turn. You promised."

"Did not," Grantaire protests.

"Close enough," Enjolras says, and his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. When Grantaire still offers no response, the blonde man makes an exasperated sound low in his throat. "Fine, keep your secrets," he says, shaking his head. "I'm going back to bed. Don't drink all my orange juice."

It's because Grantaire makes a sound that Enjolras pauses on his way past. He can't remember later if it was a sigh or an inhalation, or some combination of the two. But Grantaire makes a sound, and Enjolras turns to look at him, and then Grantaire is kissing him.

It's only a fraction of a kiss, really, because Grantaire pulls away as soon as it's started, brown eyes wide with shock and the beginnings of panic. It's like he's surprised himself more than Enjolras.

He slides off the counter, looking everywhere but at his friend, mutters, "Sorry, lot to drink, you know, don't think anything of it, I didn't mean…" and tries to move past him to the doorway.

It's interesting, because he says he's drunk but when Enjolras catches his hand and pins him back against the counter and kisses him back (and yes, this, this is a real kiss) he doesn't taste like alcohol at all.

Grantaire grabs a fistful of Enjolras' soft grey t-shirt and pulls him back against him so fiercely that it can't be comfortable, because the countertop must be digging into his back, but Grantaire's fingers slide through Enjolras' messy golden hair and he sighs against his lips and he seems just fine.

"You're right," Enjolras murmurs, and the other man can hear the laughter in his voice. "Telling your wishes to other people is a dreadful idea."

And Grantaire rests his head in the crook of his neck and huffs a laugh, sliding his palms down Enjolras' sides to rest on his hips. His hands are trembling. He needs a minute to steady himself.

Snow is falling outside and they're standing in a tiny kitchen at three in the morning on the first of January, and Enjolras kisses him again, softly, and whispers again, softly, "Happy New Year."


End file.
